This is my psychiatrist's couch. Take from it what you will.
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I still am a late middle aged former government worker marking time until the cliff.
Short Fiction, Doggerel and Insensitive Opinion are spoken here.
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Thursday, October 22, 2015

Night Cap (Blogophilia 35.8)

The tenth floor apartment was not far from the park. Limping, she leaned heavily on her cane as they
entered the building. Inside the door was a modest unit fit for a single. A
couch and coffee table sat on the opposite wall angled slight toward the corner
where the TV was hung.A door to the
left was open, his made bed visible in the shadows. To the right was the galley
kitchen.

“So, come on in.” Dropping
the suitcase next to the couch. “It ain’t much, but it is home.

“Coffee? All I have is some decaf.”

“Ooh, that sounds
good. I’m freezing.”

“Did you want to change?” Red formed along the edge of his
cheeks. “I can go back in…”

“Oh, hush. I’m not modest.” She grabbed a quilt that was on
the couch and wrapped it around her. The hands disappeared and with a whoosh,
the wet top flew over her head and landed on Bart’s head. She laughed as his
face grew redder and frightened. A pale pink bra appeared next. Looping it around
his head with a wicked grin, the embarrassment now was in full flower. Pulling
the quilt out a bit, she shook from side to side.

“Ahhh… freedom.”

The next command was accompanied by a peck on the cheek. “Sweetie,
open my bag and grab the red t shirt.”

He complied without a word. Unzipping the bag, he found the
shirt on top. Flipping it over his shoulder, it landed over her face. Giggles sounded
as the shirt quickly went over her head.

“O.K. you can look.”

When he turned, the shirt was covering everything to the
middle of her thighs. “Six Feet of Earth Makes Us All Equal” was emblazoned
across her bust.

“You like slogans, don’t you?”

“Yep. I thought it was appropriate since I am here for a funeral.”
She threw the quilt back on the couch. Pulling up the shirt on one side, she
pulled at the waistband. “It’s going to
take forceps and strong hands to get the pants off. I think they are glued to
me.”

She started hopping from foot to foot. “Oh, God. I have got
to pee.”

Taking her arm, he guided her to the bedroom door. “Through
there and on the left.”

“Thanks”.

“Need any help?”

“I think I’ve got it, thanks. But could you grab some
panties?”

A night light marked the way. Pulling the door to, she
flipped the switch. She was presented with the sparse accouterments of a male
dominated space. Clean off white walls over large square salmon tile that dated
to when the building was new. A beige plastic cup held a disposable razor. The
toothbrush hung from a matching ceramic fixture. A plain mirrored cabinet hung over
the sink. It was clean, but all form and function, no frills.

There was a knock and she took the undies, laying them on
the edge of the sink. Closing the door completely, the pants came off. They peeled
off easy, just like when Mom would strip her. She found a towel and began to
dry off.The sequence after a rain dance
would be yelling, stripping, two spanks, and a long hug with a towel fresh out
of the dryer. Naughtiness had its rewards.

The commode was on the far side of the vanity. It was a high
one with a grab bar next to it. Good, some support. Hurriedly kicking the wet clothes aside, she turned
and eased toward the seat. A scream stuck in her throat from the cramp going under
her legs. Hot damn, this hurts. Taking a breath, the butt met its target. The
relief was audible.

After finishing, she pulled around the vanity to wash. A
disaster of a woman stared back from the mirror. Blond and pink frizzed out
every direction, beach hair and deep rings around crimson eyes. She made a
half-hearted attempt to primp, but it didn’t matter. The raccoon eyes told her
she was home.

Her eyes shifted to a shelf next to the sink. A silver
framed picture of a bald woman looking slightly down. Bart was vulnerable.
Psycho Jack would be laughing right now, wondering how big the payoff would be.
She knew she would not and could not squeeze him. Money had never done anything
for her. Pleasing people did, but it seemed to always land her in trouble.
Pleasing Mom only brought questions of what she was scheming. Pleasing Psycho
only got the law involved. What would pleasing Bart bring?

Gently, she rubbed her hip. Dancing with the old man in the
rain sounded like a bad drug store romance. It was fun and scary at the same
time. Pulling up the shirt, she traced the letters of her tattoo. Bart kissed
better than Psycho by a long shot. Age is an issue of mind over matter. Bart
didn’t seem to mind and neither did she, so it doesn’t matter.